Bleed
by The Sentient Wolf
Summary: Severus Snape copes with life the only way he knows how...


Title: Bleed

Genre: Angst

Summary: Severus copes with life the only way he knows how…

Disclaimer: NOT MINE!

Rating: M (for self mutilation)

Notes: Set, I guess, sometime in OoTP and/or HBP (before 'The Big Death' scene) this one is rather dark so sensitive viewers beware…you've been warned.

Flickers of fiery light… slowly…fading to black shadow. A flash of something… then once again dark. Pale orange light dissipating in the instant it flared. Tiny yellow sparks dancing upon black walls, slowly at first, movements becoming more erratic as shallow, strained breath is expelled against the candles' flames. 

Stifling silence, broken only by the labored breathing and the shuffling of robes. Encircling darkness gave way only to five burning wicks and a ghostly pale figure in the centre of the dungeon.

Severus Snape sat at his simple oak wood desk, staring into the tiny pricks of flickering light before him. A lit fireplace, he reasoned, would have been more practical for warmth or illumination. But Severus, shivering in the near blackness, desired neither.

He thought warmth to be a senseless, fickle luxury, needed only by the weak. And after living his entire life in darkness, literally and figuratively, why should he need the light now? Thin lips curled into a sardonic sneer at the metaphor. Yes, why should he need the light now? After so many years at the Dark Lord's side, immersed in his sadistic world, why now did he need Albus so? 

Because the old bastard was like the father he never had. He was the only person Severus would and _could _ever trust, the only one he considered a true friend.

But Severus had not gone to all the trouble of austere preparation for a night of simple reminiscence; in fact the whole point of tonight's exercise was to prevent himself from going over his past. He just could _not _think about all he had endured…all he had _done._

Tonight's was an activity he had partaken in since he was eleven, though never with such precise ritualism. Tonight, he had long decided, was different. Tonight he would purge himself of his sins. Tonight he would regain control.

Ethereally pale skin seemed to materialize from nowhere as steadily he rose and disrobed, watching as his black garment fell backwards and was instantly swallowed by the darkness.

Pallid flesh glistened in an iridescent orange-yellow hue as Severus carefully swept his greasy hair from his eyes, tying it quickly with a strand of ribbon.

For a moment there was nothing but the beating of one oh-so damaged heart as Snape took a moment to survey his office, tiny goosebumps dotting his fair skin, though whether this was a result of the biting cold or restless anticipation it was impossible to tell.

With a surprisingly steady hand Severus reached for the drawer on the right hand side of his desk. It opened without protest to reveal one, lone object- a metallic, silver dagger. The cold, metal handle seemed to fit perfectly in his right hand and he welcomed its solid form for it was unchanging and relentless, just as it had always been.

Presently Snape moved closer to the candles before him. For the first time his left arm was bathed in their light and completely visible. The most noticeable feature on his body was, of course, the blackened Mark upon his forearm. It was the only thing darker than the room around him.

But if one were to look just a little closer, as very, very few had done, one may have noticed the criss-crossing of deep scars around and even through the Mark.

Very cautiously Severus shifted the knife in his hand to run a forefinger over the tangled mass ranging from wrist to elbow. A most bizarre feeling was bubbling away under his painstakingly perfected numbness; it had never been easy for him to identify emotions other than rage and jealousy so Snape found this nearly impossible to place. It wasn't quite happiness, it was more… exhilaration.

His breath sped up now and his heart raced. He had been cutting himself on and off for over twenty years now but never could he remember feeling like _this _just before the act.

Though his cutting began with his father's abuse Severus had to admit his worst scars had been acquired during his years as a Death Eater. The Dark Lord had seen his marred flesh as he had branded him with the Dark Mark and laughed in the way only he could.

But he had done more than that, he had encouraged Severus to turn to this escapism more frequently and intensify his already hazardous extremes.

And now Voldemort was back and Severus had to put his heart and soul into making his 'master' believe that he had really returned to his side. This meant he had to surrender all control, had to inflict the unthinkable on so many innocents, had to be haunted every night by the screaming of those in an agony beyond comprehension, had to stand unflinchingly as the dark Lord fingered his tattered left arm, hissing that his cuts weren't deep enough…weren't good enough…

Left hand clenched Severus raised a now slightly trembling knife and pulled it slowly across his flesh. The pain was gradual and intensified with the drag of the blade and the splitting of skin. With sick satisfaction Severus watched crimson bubbles float to the surface of his broken skin and flow toward his elbow, right over the serpent tongued skull.

The next cut was deeper, but just as methodic as the first. The tip of the blade forced his skin to part and blood welled quickly in its wake.

Adrenaline coursing through his veins Snape felt more alive than ever and his derisive laugh echoed around him.

A horizontal slash this time, slicing the skull in two. Only vaguely aware, or perhaps just not caring, that his actions were becoming more and more erratic Severus tore into his arm again and again. The pain was sharp and intense, and he savored every second of it, for in those moments he had nothing else to care for, nothing to think about, nothing to _feel_ for.

The external wounds were finally starting to match the internal ones.

The blood flowed faster, dripping from his mutilated wrist… to his stomach… to his slender leg… to the floor. There was a repulsive beauty in the contrast of deep red on porcelain white.

One incision that ran the length of his forearm, elbow to wrist, was spurting blood in such a way Severus suspected that he may have sliced into a vein. For some reason that idea brought a near hysterical, twisted laugh from his lips. He barely recognized it as his own as it reverberated around him.

His head was spinning rather excessively now and he felt weak from blood loss. He needed to sit…

There was a loud clatter as the knife slipped from his weakened grasp and onto the stone floor, Severus following not long after, unintentionally entangling himself in his previously discarded robes.

Knowing unconsciousness was but a few moments away Snape reached out a quivering hand for the knife, and with his trademark smirk firmly in place on his ashen face he carved into his wrist one simple word…

Bleed.

Please review. I'm thinking of writing a short sequel wherein Dumbledore finds a very injured Snape the next morning…anyone interested in that?


End file.
